


confusion is nothing new

by chininja



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jaime didn't die under a pile of rocks, Queen in the North, season 8 requested fix-it fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 16:08:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19176766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chininja/pseuds/chininja
Summary: There is none of the smugness she has come to associate with Jaime Lannister. In fact, the more Sansa observes him, she only sees defeat and brokenness; the kind she has only seen in war weary soldiers.--Jaime Lannister survives the burning of Kings Landing and somehow finds himself back in the North.





	confusion is nothing new

**Author's Note:**

> Fic prompt from an anon who requested a fix-it fic where Sansa is queen and Jaime is a commoner.
> 
> (I'm not sure if this is what you meant, anon, but I hope you like it? ^.^")

Her steward has called her attention to the ruckus taking place in her courtyard. Sansa couldn't help but arch an eyebrow at the commotion her people have seemingly caused this afternoon. There is still work to be done, but she surmises that since she has been staring at the same ledger for some half-past hour, the Northern Queen thinks it must be time for a break. She rises from her seat and with steady strides, follows the man out of the warmth of her chambers and into the cool air of the North.

(It has been a couple of years since the long night has ended and while it certainly isn't as cold then - nor as dark and hopeless - the snow will remain in the North just as the sun will burn brightly in Dorne.) 

When she steps out into the courtyard, her guards - Northmen and some Free Folk who chose to stay - have their weapons drawn, clearly agitated by whoever this unwelcome visitor may be. As she moves closer to where the men stand enclosed, the Queen in the North sees a glimpse of dirty blonde hair - even more unkempt than the last time she saw him. Even if Sansa failed to recognize him by his hair, she would’ve recognized Jaime Lannister by the glint of his golden hand and the sword on his hip.

“Someone will explain to me what is going on here,” the Northern Queen’s voice is cool and sharp, able to slice through the noise of the crowd.

Her people drop to their knees the moment they hear her, heads bowed low. And all of a sudden, Sansa is face to face with green eyes she had long accepted never to see again. After all, he left to die with his sister - whether by her hand or at the hands of the Dragon Queen. (If Sansa feels any sort of satisfaction at the memory of the Targaryen queen’s fate, she does not show it.) She then gestures for the men to rise and to lower their weapons.

There is none of the smugness she has come to associate with Jaime Lannister. In fact, the more Sansa observes him, she only sees defeat and brokenness; the kind she has only seen in war weary soldiers and those grieving.

“Ser Jaime,” she calls to him, eyes like wildfire lock on hers. “You’re far away from home.” She says, bemused by his presence. He has never tried to hide his scorn for what he and his kin used to call as the barren wasteland, and Sansa remains just a little bit suspicious at what game the crippled knight could be playing.

“My la-” he clears his throat then, suddenly cognizant of her new title and the power she has over him. “Your Grace,” he bows before her, his chin tipped towards his chest, taking glimpses of her through his lashes. He straightens then, faces this woman who grew from the girl his sister derided. She is a queen, a reality that only seems to hit him squarely now that he is within her presence. Far more regal than Margaery Tyrell ever hoped to be, should she still be alive. Far more cunning than his sister gave her credit for, and far more loved than even the Dragon Queen - despite the Dothraki horde and Unsullied she brought with her to the once Seven Kingdoms.

There is only a slight tilting of her head to the side, his slip not having gone unnoticed. "I have nothing to offer you but my sword; not the gold my family boasted of, nor any honor or glory to my name. I know I have none of those," the former Lord Commander pauses. He fidgets, shifts his weight between his feet, his flesh hand flexes as if to grasp for words to say.

"I am a peasant in all but name, no house to serve, no monarch to serve under -"

"There is my brother in the South, ser," she interrupts him, words crisp as the Northern air.

"Yes, Your Grace," he looks uncertain then, unsure of what to disclose or how to say it. (After all, is he stupid or brave enough to confess to this stoic queen that he is responsible for crippling her beloved brother?) "Still I find that there is nothing left for me in the South," Ser Jaime finally says. "Besides, I believe King Bran's protection is under the most capable hands of Ser Brienne." At the lady knight's name, Sansa visibly sees the tired knight's countenance soften. _Curious,_ she thinks. She has assumed that something might have happened between the two, or even the _start_ of something, but then he left. And Brienne, ever faithful, continued to serve her and give her counsel as if nothing took place.

(If her eyes were red and tears-swollen on some days, Sansa was kind enough to look the other way and let the lady knight deal with it on her own terms.

When Brienne requested to serve her brother, the Queen in the North was sad to see her go, but knew that it was something she needed to do.

Each one moves on from a hurt quite differently, after all.)

When Sansa takes a moment to consider the man before her, she sees the Northmen and Free Folk alike look to her as if to gauge whether to begrudgingly accept this Lannister into their fold or to strike him through with their weapons. She clears her throat then and addresses her people. "Please go back to your duties everyone. Ser Jaime," the knight straightens at the sound of his name. "Come with me."

She doesn't wait for him, only turns to walk back where she came from, stopping a maid to request for ale and bread.

As Queen, Sansa has learned to slip into those shoes with the ease of someone bred from nobility. It wasn't that different from when she had to be the Lady of Winterfell, and she has successfully gained the trust and respect of the Northern lords and ladies, thus far. Whatever she decides to do with the old Lord Commander, she has the whole of the North to think of - he isn't just joining her household.

Jaime Lannister is requesting to stay within her kingdom.

They reach her chambers then, Sansa entering and leaving the door to Ser Jaime. She moves towards her desk, fingers running through leafs of paper that need her attention, before she gestures for him to sit.

She regards him quietly, his doublet still in good condition but in need of a wash and some mending, his beard scraggly, his hair just erring on the side of greasy. There is definite dirt beneath his fingernails, his boots muddy, about the only thing in relatively good condition he has on his person is the Valyrian steel forged from her father's long sword. 

If Tywin Lannister were alive to see his prized heir now, Sansa is certain the Old Lion would wrinkle his nose in disgust and his eyes would turn cold.

"What is it that you want, Ser?" she asks after her scrutiny of him.

"Peace, Your Grace," Ser Jaime responds. He doesn't quite meet her eyes, just settles on a spot above her fiery hair. "All I want is a reprieve," it is the most honest he has allowed himself to be, to himself and to others, and he finds that he doesn't have the energy to lie to himself anymore anyway.

"A reprieve from what?" 

 _From all the ghosts in my head_ , he almost confesses. "A reprieve from my past, Your Grace," is what he says instead.

Jaime's eyes flicker to her face then, sees her sharp eyes, can almost hear the gears in her head churning. Sansa leans away from her desk then, moving towards the small jug of wine left for her earlier this morning, the jug of ale she requested earlier beside it. She pours them each a glass, handing him the ale for him to grasp.

She takes a sip of her wine, the alcohol washing over her tongue and warming her belly, before she places her glass down and sits on the high backed chair next to his.

"I don't trust you, Ser Jaime," Sansa begins. Jaime isn't surprised by her words, but finds that he is still stung by them nonetheless. "Not just for what your family did to mine, but for the heartbreak you put my sworn shield, my _friend_ , through.

Sansa doesn't raise her voice - her displeasure evident in her words and demeanor rather than her tone. She seemed unflappable in her dislike of him, unlike Cersei who was fierce in everything - her hate, her anger, her fucking. So Jaime hangs his head because there is nothing for him to say. He knows he has hurt the only person to have ever seen the goodness in him he was too blind and stubborn to see. 

"What happened to your sister?" 

His head snaps up to her gaze, blue eyes like the Wall, like the winter roses they grow here - beautiful until fingers get pricked by thorns.

"She died." he says simply. 

 _"How?"_ she insists. 

Jaime can't help but narrow his eyes, weighing how much he would disclose to this young queen.

"By my hands." he says finally, hand wiping his face down. 

There is an intake of breath from her so soft, Jaime would have missed had he not been trained to use all his senses in battle as a boy.

"Why?" she whispers. 

It is such a vague and broad question that he allows himself to overthink a little. There are several implications to her question, and Jaime's unsure if these are answers he is willing to give, much less have. Nevertheless, he settles on the reason he's chosen to believe, the reason that smooths out the guilt he feels.

"It was her or the people of Kings Landing," his voice is distant, Sansa notices, as though he is taken away by the very memory he wishes to forget. "I chose the city so that it wouldn't have to burn. But it burned anyway." Neither of them need to elaborate how that came to be, both fully aware of who was to blame.

"Do you regret it then?" Sansa asks, thinks that were she not a queen, she would be considered insolent for asking such a thing. Yet curiosity spurns her.

"The city I was trying to save burned anyway because the Dragon Queen proved to be just like her father," his voice is rough, with sorrow or repressed anger she cannot tell. "I would rather have killed Danaerys Targaryen than my own twin. Cersei is - _was_ - my other half, killing her -" he breaks off, catching himself from raising his voice.

"It doesn't matter now."

"Your sister was a hateful woman," Sansa tells him, eyes unflinching, her tone unapologetic. She was merely stating the truth. "I would have loved to see justice be dealt upon her. But," the Queen in the North pauses, considers her next words carefully. "I'm sorry you had to do it." Sansa says so gently, even sympathetically, that Jaime cannot find it in himself to be mad at her (he isn't sure if he even has a leg to stand on at this point).

"You will have to gain my trust Ser Jaime, mine and the rest of the North's." She sits back against her chair after she reaches for her wine. She doesn't drink from it, just simply cradles the cup in her hands. "But as I already have a Queensguard, I think Master of Arms would have to do, hm?"

It is a much lower position she gives him, and they both know this. She doesn't mean to shame him, although perhaps that is merely a side effect of what she wishes to do. Sansa only wants to see if the humility he has thus far shown her is genuine or if there is still that old Lannister pride lurking beneath.

As Queen, she has no need for more men who wish to grapple for more power than they were given.

For a moment, he seemed taken aback, and Sansa almost told him to find another house to serve instead. "It would be my honor, Your Grace." his once golden head, bowed once more.

Jaime doesn't know what to feel, to be sure; not gratitude or satisfaction. Relief perhaps, that finally there can be a place to rest his head. But confusion too, knowing full well that Sansa Stark is by no means obligated to grant him any sort of favor.

"I am in your debt, Your Grace."

"Yes, yes. A Lannister in my debt, surely the world must be coming to an end," she says it so dismissively, Jaime is uncertain how to react.

"You are dismissed, Ser Jaime," Sansa says at last, and so he stands when she does. He is almost by the door when her words halt him.

"I require only your loyalty ser. If you betray me," she trails off, the implications behind her words clear and received fully that Jaime thinks that was the end of it. "You will find that I am as just as my Lord Father used to be."

 _A fair assessment_ , Jaime thinks. He has served under several monarchs in his time - monarchs who were mad as they were cruel.

Perhaps now he's found one that is worthy of his service. _Only time will tell_ , he supposes.

He better get used to calling her his queen - Sansa Stark, First of Her Name, the Queen in the North.

_Long may she reign._

**Author's Note:**

> I _might_ turn this into a multi-chap fic, even though that level of commitment scares me. lol. But here seems to be a good point to end it first. Please do let me know what you think :)


End file.
